


Morning Chill

by tigs



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:59:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2052735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigs/pseuds/tigs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing John smells when he steps out of the tent that morning is the coffee. [McKay/Sheppard. G.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Chill

The first thing John smells when he steps out of the tent that morning is the coffee. It's a comparatively light smell, diffused by the cool mountain air, but it's still strong enough that John can almost taste it, can imagine its warmth pooling low in his stomach, weaving its way up his spine. 

He curls his hands into his jacket pockets as he walks towards the campfire, towards where Rodney is sitting on a blanket-covered rock, a battered looking field mug wrapped in his hands. He's got his elbows on his knees and he's looking towards the fire; John can see the reflection of the flames, shadow and weak orange light, playing across his face. 

Rodney doesn't look up as John approaches, though. Not until John is within just a few feet of him, standing between Rodney and the mountainous horizon, and when he finally does lift his head, John can see the white fog of his breath at his lips. He doesn't say anything, just looks at John and after a moment, a long beat, John starts forward again, moving between Rodney and the fire and then sitting down on a patch of blanket that is covering actual ground. 

"You're up early this morning," John says as he pulls his legs to his chest, leans his back against the rock. Then, looking around the grove: "I thought I gave Teyla the final watch." 

He doesn't say, 'I missed you.' 

He doesn't say how wrong it felt, waking up alone, his hand fisted in the cool, slick cloth of Rodney's empty sleeping bag. 

"Yes, well," Rodney says. "I was awake anyway and I didn't see any reason for *both* of us to be unreasonably sleep deprived today." 

John nods even though he knows that there's more to it than that. 

There are several reasons he usually assigns Rodney the first watch of the night, after all, but the main one is that once you finally get Rodney to bed, you aren't going to get him up and about again without a full pot of coffee on hand. 

Of course this morning, Rodney made his own coffee. 

Which he is now offering to John, the battered mug seeming to magically appear at his shoulder. John reaches for it, and he doesn't even realize that he's shivering until his fingers brush Rodney's, until his hands are wrapped tightly around the cup, warm from both Rodney's hands and the hot liquid inside. 

He takes a sip and, as bitter as the coffee is on his tongue, it feels just as good inside of him as he knew it would, suffusing him with a quickly spreading warmth. He takes another sip, then presses a little bit closer to Rodney, so that his shoulder is pressed to Rodney's knee. He lifts the mug to his shoulder again and Rodney takes it back, plucking it from his fingers and bringing it to his own lips again. 

John turns his head so that he can watch Rodney drink, watch him swallow, watch him finish the coffee and set the cup down on his other side, on the uneven ground. Then Rodney clasps his hands in front of him, fingers woven together, but after another moment they separate again, and Rodney's right hand moves hesitantly behind John's back, across to his left shoulder. Rests there, making John warmer than coffee ever could. 

"If I didn't know better," Rodney says finally, a few long minutes later, "I'd almost think I was back home, on one of my Uncle Everett's ill-fated camping trips, where he decided we were going to live off the land for the weekend. Jeannie and I took turns smuggling in the junk food in our sleeping bags. A weekend without chocolate, my sister used to say, was a weekend that was hardly worth living." 

John smiles. He can see Rodney's sister saying something like that. He can see Rodney saying something like that. 

"He made us _hike_ ," Rodney continues. "He made us _pitch our own tents_." 

"This is sounding awfully familiar," John says with a laugh, and when he glances up, Rodney is smiling fondly down at him. He finds himself leaning a little bit more heavily against Rodney's leg. 

"I always liked the mornings the best," Rodney says after a moment. "Before the day got too hot. Before he made us participate in whatever torture he had planned for that day. I could just sit. And breathe. And wish for a cup of coffee. It was nice." He pauses. "It _is_ nice." 

"Well, yeah," John says. "I mean, you've got the coffee now, right?" 

After a beat, Rodney says, "Yes, I guess I've got that, too," and John shivers slightly as Rodney's thumb traces a slow pattern across the back of his neck. 

End


End file.
